Twister City, 1x01 Stormborne
by Kay Seda
Summary: Det. Wyatt Cain joins the Topeka police department, and finds out that solving crime may be the least of his problems. An AU loosely based on every cop drama ever. Finally complete, or at least this "episode" is.
1. Chapter 1

_Teaser_

A faded blue pickup truck hauling a rental trailer made its way along a sun-drenched open highway, endless seas of crops blanketing the landscape to either side. Bob Dylan was on the radio, stuck inside of Mobile again. The driver was a man in a gray fedora, his hands rested at ten-and-two ont eh wheel while his eyes stared the road down. In the passenger seat was a miserable-looking teenage boy with honey-blond hair just on the wrong side of long. He brought the straw of a cup of soda to his lips and drank despondently.

The man's name was Wyatt Cain, the boy was his son Jeb, and they were hurtling towards an uncertain new life.

"It's gonna be different now," Cain said, apparently picking up and earlier conversation. "The city isn't like Hays, you're gonna have to watch yourself."

Jeb rolled his eyes. "I know, Dad, you don't have to tell me every ten minutes."

With a grunt Cain adjusted his grip on the wheel and stretched his shoulders as best he could. "I know you know, I'm just not sure you understand."

They passed a sign announcing it would be twenty miles before they reached Topeka, and in a hundred miles they would get to Kansas City.

"It's not like we're going to Houston or, or Chicago," Jeb persisted. "It's just Topeka."

"You don't get it," his father muttered. "Nothing's going to be the same now. We've got a lot of storms coming."

o

Rain swept down through the city like the wind's own blade, filling all the cracks and sweeping them clean, turning streets to streams and buildings to islands. The river which usually flowed with trepidation adopted a ferocity in the lightning, the surface churning as the current picked up. It was nearly two in the morning and Topeka huddled from nature's wrath.

An indistinct figure left a nightclub through the back door, coat pulled over his head as he splashed through the light of security lamps. Through a gauzy curtain silhouettes could just be seen of two women pacing and talking animatedly. A child crawled into his parents' bed in search of comfort from the storm, while in a dorm at Washburn a much older boy paused his studying to rest his face in his hands.

Out in the rail yard was a motionless figure, the corpse of a man with stringy dark hair, splayed on his back beside a shed. Rainwater filled his open mouth and open eyes and pooled in the hollow of his throat, where it became stained red with the blood still seeping from a fatal wound.

o

Daylight brought the shimmer of heat haze and the sparkle of police cruiser lights. The bald medical examiner supervised the body bag being loaded onto a gurney while forensics analyst Ambrose LeFerve snapped pictures of the scene, walking around and around in search of any trace of evidence. He was slender, in his early thirties with a mop of curling dark hair, and at this moment he was frowning intently as he approached two of his colleagues. Detective Thomas Tudor was mopping his brow as the lieutenant, Lionel Rawlins, surveyed the rail yard placidly.

"Storm took just about everything," LeFerve said and offered a sweeping gesture to the crime scene. "No footprints, no tire imprints, no fibers, all we have is the body, and even that won't tell us a lot because we can't get an accurate T.O.D." He shook his head, studied his camera a moment, powered it down and slid it into the bag slung over his shoulder.

Rawlins sighed and nodded. "Do the best we can," he said softly.

"We'll need a lot of luck," Tudor remarked and resettled his aviator sunglasses. "Or a fresh pair of eyes. New guy's gonna be in today, right?"

"At nine," Rawlins replied. He glanced at the sun and Tudor checked his wristwatch while LeFerve consulted an incongruous pocket watch.

The CSI shrugged and returned the timepiece to his jeans pocket. "Oh well. Better get back and put the coffee on."

The three men departed the scene with a sense of solemn duty, the pressing weight of justice hanging over them.

_Act 1_

Cain actually arrived at the front door of the police station at 8:50 with Jeb in tow. School would not start for another week and he was not about to leave his son to his own devices on his first day in a new city. They approached the reception desk, which was tended by a white haired man whose attention was focused on an iPhone. After a few moments of waiting Cain cleared his throat pointedly, but was ignored.

"Excuse me," he finally said, leaning over the desk. The man responded by holding up a hand, which caused Jeb to sigh and cast his gaze towards the ceiling. "I'm here to see Lieutenant Rawlins."

"And I'm watching YouTube," the man snapped. The nameplate declared him to be Peter Vue. He grinned at the screen, shook his head, then finally gave his attention to the visitors. Cain was dressed in a suit and tie, Jeb in cargo pants and a Linkin Park t-shirt, and the receptionist raised his eyebrows. "May I help you?"

"I'm Wyatt Cain, I'm the new detective," Cain began, then nodded to his son. "We just got in to town last night, so I brought my boy in to keep an eye on him."

Vue looked them both over again and nodded. "Waiting room two," he told Jeb and pointed in the proper direction before turning his gaze to Cain. "And come with me, the lieutenant wanted to see you right away."

They walked past the waiting room which Jeb was directed into, pointed at ancient magazines and stale coffee and the daytime television on mute. Cain instructed his son to stay put, he'll be back for him to get lunch, and then he and Vue departed.

Jeb waited exactly forty seconds before he got to his feet and, with his visitor pass visible to all, went off exploring.

o

Vue knocked twice once they reached the office, waited for a couple moments, then opened the door and leaned in. "Wyatt Cain to see you, sir."

The office's occupant, Lt. Lionel Rawlins, waved them in from the seat behind his desk. He was a man of average height with shaggy, golden-brown hair and a neatly maintained full beard. Dressed in brown slacks with a slate blue shirt and matching tie, he gave off a casual aura as he sized up his new detective. Wordlessly he gestured to a visitor's chair, which Cain took while Vue departed with a shrug, closing the door behind him.

There was yet more silence as the men studied one another. Unnerved, Cain was about to break eye contact when Rawlins leaned in to speak.

"Good drive?" he asked, then added at Cain's mystified expression. "From Hays. No trouble?"

"No, none sir," Cain replied awkwardly. Rawlins had a soft, rasping voice that seemed at odds with his appearance. "No traffic, fine weather until we got into town, and we didn't even get lost finding the hotel. Thank you again for putting us up."

Rawlins nodded. "Long trip with big change. You sure about this?"

"It's a little late for me to reconsider, sir," Cain said with a shrug. "I'm certain I can handle it."

The lieutenant scratched at his beard, stood up, and paced over to the window. "The city is different, even for a good, brave man," he sighed, and Cain was relieved to hear him string that many words together no matter how nonsensical they were. "Crime is constant, if you know where to look."

"I do," Cain said flatly. There was a knock at the door, and a moment later it was opened to admit Thomas Tudor. He strolled right up to the desk and leaned against it to give Cain the once-over.

"Wyatt Cain," Rawlins said, and Tudor blinked.

"My new partner?" he asked. At Rawlins' nod he smiled and offered his hand. "Thomas Tudor, good to meet you. Welcome to vice and homicide."

Cain froze in the act of shaking his hand. "Homicide?"

"Budget cuts," Rawlins growled.

"Combined the departments," Tudor added. "The powers that be figured the one can lead to the other, so that's where we're at. You'll do fine, we've got a good bunch backing us up."

Rawlins had returned to his desk and retrieved a badge, sidearm, and holster from a drawer. Cain got to his feet as the lieutenant came around and presented the items to him, "Thank you, sir."

"First day, should go easy," Rawlins said and turned to Tudor. "Show him around, introduce him to everyone."

"Can do," Tudor replied as Cain affixed his new accouterments to his belt. "We'll be back for the afternoon briefing."

o

Once out of the office they made their way to the squad room, where Cain located his desk and received his initial supplies. Emily and Hank Droiden, the husband and wife IT team, got him up on the network and gave him a crash course on the various systems. This took until noon, at which point they collected Jeb (who had returned to the waiting room at some point) and headed to the cafeteria for lunch.

"How are you liking Topeka?" Tudor asked the boy, minimally interested.

Jeb sighed. "I've seen a Wendy's, a hotel, and a police station waiting room. So far it's boring."

"Jeb," Cain snapped. "Watch your mouth."

"Aw, lay off, partner. Kid's got a point," Tudor said with a wave. "But this town's not that boring, I can tell you stories. I been on this job fifteen years, I seen everything this city can do. You better not underestimate it."

Cain glared and moved his mashed potatoes around with a fork. "Really."

"Oh yeah," Tudor replied with a nod to the TV. "Her for example."

Jeb and Cain looked, where on the screen was a beautiful dark haired woman gesturing at a weather map. The graphics identified her as Katy Gailman, meteorologist.

"The weather witch," Tudor began. "She's cleaned up good but a few years ago... speed freak. Meth is a hell of a drug. She busted into one of the biochem labs at Washburn, held one of the lab assistants hostage for six hours. Tried get him to cook for her, or tell her how to do it. He refused." He winced and shook his head. "I was a beat cop back then, first on the scene. By the time we got there she'd knocked him out and was slicing his head open-" he traced a line down the center of his head "-with a hunk of glass."

Jeb was boggling. "Why?"

Tudor leaned forward. "She said she was trying to get to his brain, to get the information."

"And now she's doing the weather," Cain deadpanned.

"She's a Gailman," Tudor said with a shrug. "Her grandmother was a senator, her mother's the mayor now, and her kid sister's an ADA. She got off with rehab and community service."

"What happened to the guy?" Jeb asked, his gaze still fixed on the TV.

Tudor snorted. "He's fine. Filed civil suit, settled out of court. Got his own lab now and everything."

Jeb shook his head and excused himself to go grab some dessert. Tudor leaned back and sighed, eyeing his partner carefully. "Can't take the boy with you to work every day, you know. Not with what we deal with."

"I can't leave him in a hotel by himself either," Cain pointed out. "He's fourteen, I want him somewhere I know he's safe."

Tudor nodded. "Fair enough, we'll work something out for tomorrow, but he'd gotta go back in the waiting room after lunch so we can work on your first case."

"And what would that be?"

"The John Doe we collected from down by the tracks this very morning."


	2. Chapter 2

_Act 2_

Tudor led Cain to the south wing, which housed both the evidence rooms and forensics offices. They came to the closed door for a lab which bore the nameplate "Dr." A. LeFevre, the title having been roughly scratched into the plastic. Music could be heard faintly from the other side and Tudor knocked with more vigor than was necessary, and then opened the door upon hearing a muffled response.

Inside was something close to organized chaos, several computer screens, racks of meticulously labeled test tubes and centrifuges beside clearly cobbled-together equipment of unknown origin or purpose. The music sounded a bit too much like a confused marching band being wrung through a steam engine for Cain's liking, and Tudor's wince seemed to indicate the other man agreed. "Can you turn that racket off, son?"

"Just a minute!" a cheerful voice called, and only then did Cain notice the figure hunched over a microscope. The man was taking notes without removing his attention from whatever he was looking at, then reached over and smacked the "stop" button on the CD player before he sat back and rubbed his eyes. "Hey, T. What now?"

"Bringing my new partner around to meet everyone," Tudor replied, and the man finally swiveled away from his work. "This is Dr. Ambrose LeFevre, our chief forensics analyst. LeFevre, this is Detective Wyatt Cain."

Cain blinked, restrained himself from asking _aren't you a little young to be heading up a department?_, and accepted the enthusiastic handshake. "Good to meet you, doctor."

"Please, call me Glitch," LeFevre said.

"Why?"

"Because 'pain in the ass' was already taken." This was said with a wink to Tudor and followed up with a sigh. "Plus some people take exception to my claim of doctorhood."

"Get a doctorate in your field and we'll talk about it," Tudor remarked. "You still owe that fine for defacing police property."

LeFevre wrinkled his nose. "I'll pay it when you get me a replacement sign."

"Entertaining as this is, gentlemen, we have crime to fight," a new voice announced. It belonged to a blonde, blue-eyed woman around LeFevre's age who had elbowed her way into the discussion. "Autopsy's done, Brose," she added and proffered a report.

LeFevre accepted the papers with a grin. "Thank you, Leona," he sing-songed, which earned an ignored arched eyebrow. He signed off on the report and stuck it in a file folder before clapping his hands. "Well! Let's go see Igor. Oh, ah, Detective Cain, this is CSI Leona Praedlyn, Leona this is-"

"Wyatt Cain, just moved up from Hays," Praedlyn said and headed out of the room. The men glanced at one another before following her into the hall and toward the elevator. "Ten years as a police officer, this is his first detective gig. Likes football, '24', and woodworking." The elevator doors opened and they piled in, Praedlyn responding to Cain's questioning look with a shrug as she pushed the button for the basement. "I'm an investigator. Also you're nuts if you think telling a fourteen-year-old to stay put for several hours is going to work."

Cain sighed and shook his head. "Sorry he was bothering you, miss."

"I loaned him my PSP for the afternoon," she replied with a shrug, then hit the 'close doors' button a few more times. "Come on, come on-" Finally the doors gave up and closed, and the elevator began its painfully slow descent.

"You're partner's prettier than mine," LeFevre mused from the back corner. Cain glanced sharply over his shoulder to find the other man's gaze directed thoughtfully downward. He was about to snap a retort when he noticed, under the harsh florescent lighting, the pinkish scar running along the part in LeFevre's hair. His eyes narrowed-

Tudor swatted LeFevre's arm. "Can you not say things like that? Apologize to the man."

"I'm sorry I called you pretty, detective," LeFevre said with a chastened grin.

"No he's not," Praedlyn said, deadpan, as the doors mercifully opened again. The four quickly exited, the CSIs taking the lead while the detectives lingered behind.

Tudor glanced down the hall after them, then up at his partner with a nod. "He's just testing you, don't worry about it. Man treats everyone like an experiment," he said with a sigh. "They both do, but they get the job done."

Cain shrugged, far from convinced. "I guess that's what's important."

They caught up with the other half of their party outside the morgue, and a suddenly serious LeFevre glanced at each of them in turn before unceremoniously pushing the door open. The room was brightly lit and covered in white tile and stainless steel. There were two tables, one empty, the other bearing a body covered with a sheet. At a small desk farthest from the door a gaunt, pale, bald man was taking notes.

The room smelled of death and disinfectant and Cain found himself taking shallow breaths.

"Detective Cain, this is Doctor Raynz, Raynz, this is Cain," LeFevre said, and any forced cheer in his voice fell flat. He nodded to the body on the table. "And this is Mr. John Doe."

Raynz muttered and got to his feet. "Excuse me while I relish the moment, Dr. LeFevre, as I so rarely get the honor of telling you how very wrong you are." He pressed an empty, shallow aluminum tray into LeFevre's hands before continuing. "The deceased was a Mr. Calvin Schaffer. Current residence unknown, but ten years ago he spent time at Walter Reed Medical Center."

"How do you figure?" Cain asked. He was ignoring Praedlyn, who had pulled on a pair of latex gloves and was now peering down at the concealed corpse.

Raynz picked up a surgical steel pin, held it up for the detectives, then deposited it into LeFevre's tray. "I removed that from his spine and traced the serial number. Military records say it was a training accident."

At which point Praedlyn moved the sheet down, uncovering the dead man's face and upper torso. Besides the Y-incision and some bruising on the arms the only significant damage was the large wound in the center of the chest. Praedlyn tsked and shook her head. "Cause of death?"

With a snort Raynz dropped a railroad spike into the tray. The clang made everyone jump and caused LeFevre to nearly drop his burden. Praedlyn wandered over to take the tray and study its contents. "Cool!"

"Now _you_ don't go saying things like _that_," Tudor snapped. He moved to stand beside Cain, who was now staring down at the deceased. "When's the last time you seen a dead body out in the sticks?"

"Been a few months," Cain replied, voice gone soft and even.

_Wrists bound with satin ribbon._

"What are you thinking?" LeFevre asked Praedlyn.

She considered for a moment, then nodded firmly. "Suicide."

_Long blonde hair caked with blood._ Cain frowned and tilted his head.

Tudor was now looking over Raynz' notes. "No leads on a current residence?"

"No, I was saving some work for you, detective."

"You always say suicide!" LeFevre pointed out. "Seriously now, Lea."

"I guess I could hit up Google."

"Who doesn't wanna kill themselves here? Just because you want to have this town's backwater hick babies-"

Cain took a deep, careful breath. _Golden green eyes filmy, murky, unseeing._

"Hey!"

"I'll forward you the records from the VA office."

"Fine, good. Cain? Hey, Cain."

"Yeah," Cain responded with a shake of his head and a sharp glance at Tudor.

"You all right there?"

Praedlyn and LeFevre were looking at him now, too, the former with bald curiosity and the latter with quizzical concern. Raynz had returned to his desk, done socializing for the moment.

"Fine," Cain answered firmly and straightened his shoulders. "I want to look at everyone's reports as well, get up to speed on the case. When's that briefing Rawlins mentioned?"

"Ten minutes," Tudor replied. "I've got some quick things to take care of and then I'll meet you there. Think you can find his office again?" At Cain's assent, Tudor nodded and turned for the door. "Oh, don't forget to knock before you go in." With that, he was gone.

LeFevre wagged his finger. "Always knock," he admonished, then held the door open for Praedlyn. "We'll record these and get our findings to you ASAP, detective. Hey, what about a vampire cult, Lea?" he called as he followed after Praedlyn. "Stake through the heart and all."

"It's not wood!"

"So? The old memes don't matter anym-"

The door closed, and Cain found himself alone with the corpse and the coroner.

"He's not getting any less dead," Raynz muttered, and if that wasn't a dismissal Cain didn't know what was.

o

The elevator doors opened again, and Cain took a deep breath before stepping into the hall. It was for the best that he got a murder victim out of the way on Day One, now he wasn't going to worry about what the first corpse would be. It hadn't been a lost little girl, or a wayward teenage boy, or a forgotten old man, or a woman-

_Dull eyes crimson streaks in honey blonde hair bloodless white hands mouth open silence "Wyatt!"_

"Damnit," he muttered and pressed the heel of his palm to his brow. A moment later Cain looked up, noticed he'd overshot the office, and backtracked. He paused outside, frowned upon hearing a female laugh, then opened the door.

Perched on the edge of Rawlins' desk was a woman who looked to be in her late twenties, dressed in a short black skirt, red cowl-necked blouse, and matching red heels. Her wavy dark hair was partially pinned back while the rest of it tumbled around her shoulders. Rawlins was standing beside her and smiling down while she grinned right back up at him. The last detail Cain processed before they noticed his entry was one of the woman's fingers tugging at the lieutenant's belt loop.

There was an awkward silence as the woman got to her feet and Rawlins stepped back away from her.

"Sorry," Cain found himself saying, then blinked with dawning realization. "Crap, I was supposed to knock."

* * *

_A/N: Before you ask, no, Leona did not actually appear in the series. Glitch just mentioned her in passing so she's a bit of an OC g _


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Twister City, 1x01 - _Stormborne_ (3/3)

Author: Kay Seda

Characters: EVERYONE EVER

Summary of this part: A meeting, another meeting, another meeting, and a picnic.

Disclaimer: Tin Man is not mine. Contrary to popular belief Topeka isn't either. Neither is "Topeka" by Ludo, lyrics from which appear at the end.

* * *

_Act 3_

Cain stared at Rawlins. Rawlins stared back.

A wide smile broke across the woman's face as she crossed the room, hand held out to the detective. "Mr. Cain, I take it?"

"Detective," Rawlins and Cain said together as Cain, his actions barely his own at this point, took the woman's hand. Her handshake was firm and professional in clear contrast with everything else about her.

"Sorry, I need to work on my proper forms of address," she remarked. "Dorothy Gailman, ADA."

Cain wondered what an ADA was doing so casually hanging around in a police lieutenant's office. He tried and failed to reject the obvious answer and shot Rawlins an incredulous glare. To his credit the other man did not look away and gazed back with calm confidence.

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am," Cain said and pulled his hand back. He'd play along with this charade of normalcy for his first day, but promised himself to not let it continue if he could help it.

Meanwhile, Gailman waved away the formality. "Please, my mother is 'ma'am,' I'll go with 'miss' for a few years yet."

Cain snorted. "My apologies, miss," he remarked dryly.

Mercifully there was a knock on the door which opened a moment later to admit the Droidens. While they both descended on Gailman to get hugs Cain grabbed the door and, with a pointed look at Rawlins, held it open. The lieutenant simply shrugged in acceptance.

Next to arrive was Praedlyn, who took one look at the ADA before she focused her attention on Cain. She handed him a manila folder labeled in red Sharpie with the murder victim's name.

"Our initial findings," she told him. "Not much to go on, the weather was working against us."

Cain nodded as he thumbed through the file. "Thanks for this, and for keeping an eye on Jeb."

Praedlyn shrugged. "Least I can do. So long as he keeps out of trouble."

Cain sighed and was about to embark on a defense of his son when Rawlins settled behind his desk, which seemed to signal to the group that the briefing was in session. Gailman resumed her lean against the desk, only now it was full of purpose and propriety. Hank and Emily moved to stand by the window, and Praedlyn stepped over to the bookcase while gesturing for Cain to take one of the empty chairs, which he did after reluctantly leaving the door.

"Tudor?" Rawlins inquired.

"Working on getting a place of residence," Praedlyn replied with a sigh. "LeFevre's trying to get info off the spike, looking for a serial number or something to find out where it was driven. Or he's just blowing off the meeting, I don't know."

"They'll come back with something," Emily Droiden said with a nod and an earnest smile.

"I hope so," Gailman muttered. "I want to give Wayzard something to look at by the end of the day. "

Praedlyn rolled her eyes. "We're still waiting on surveillance from CSX, but because of the weather visibility was lousy last night."

"That's hardly reassuring," Gailman remarked. "We've got no witnesses and the only evidence is the murder weapon."

"And the body."

"Yeah, one dead ex-marine, wait 'til the press gets hold of that."

"Sorry if that puts a hitch in your mom's chamber of commerce statement, counsel, but we're doing our best."

Any further snapping was cut short by a rapid knock at the door, then it opened to admit an annoyed-looking Tudor and a furious LeFevre.

"Stand down, everyone," Tudor sighed. "We just got overridden by the Fed."

Rawlins frowned. "What?"

"FBI flagged the case," Tudor said as he settled into the chair next to Cain's. "Said they got three other homicides with the same COD down in Tulsa."

"I saw that when getting the files together," LeFevre added and perched on the credenza. "S'why I called OKC. They called Washington, had a little chat, and then they called me back to say they were taking the case, and that us 'folks' should 'stand by' in case they want our 'help'." He ceased his air-quotes and shook his head.

"Well," Gailman began diplomatically. "If they do need help-"

"We'll be sure to tell them how to get to Bobo's," Tudor muttered.

Cain stared at the folder in his hands until Praedlyn took it back from him. "Wait, this doesn't-"

"It's the Fed," Praedlyn said. "They've probably got a suspect in mind and don't want the locals bungling it on them."

She raised her eyebrows to Rawlins, who shrugged and glanced to LeFevre, who smiled crookedly in return. Rawlins sighed and nodded, and the smile brightened.

"Off record," Rawlins said firmly.

"Of course," LeFevre replied. "We'd never dream of interfering with an ongoing federal investigation. A little research can't do any harm."

"Won't even know we were looking," Emily Droiden put in while her husband nodded.

Gailman bit her lip, then nodded slowly as well. "A... well informed law enforcement is a well-prepared law enforcement."

"Well, since that's settled," Tudor began and sat up to turn to his partner. Unless you have any objection?"

Cain looked around the room. Gailman frowned slightly still, the Droidens smiled amicably, Praedlyn flipped through the file, LeFevre stared at him curiously, and Rawlins wore an unfathomably expression.

With a sigh Cain shook his head. "No, I'm fine."

"Good," Tudor said with a quick smile. "Now why the hell did you leave a nice, quiet job in Hays to put up with crap like this?"

"Huh?"

"This is where we get your life story," Praedlyn told him. "Cuts down the gossip if everything's out in the open."

Cain had only been working in this department for five hours but already knew he'd be damned if there would never be anything to gossip about. Instead he shrugged. "Not much to tell. My son and I were looking to move, saw the job opening, applied, and here I am."

"Divorced?" Gailman asked with a tilt of her head.

His heart froze over just a little bit more as his thumb went to the wedding band he refused to take off. "No. Widowed."

There was the usual gasps, muttered apologies, even a hushed "Oh no," from LeFevre and an ashamed blush from Gailman.

"She was murdered back in January," he continued before any of them asked. "The trail went cold and...Jeb and I couldn't stay there."

Sympathy and silence lingered until Tudor reached out and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "We'll make sure you're both taken care of."

"Where are you staying?" Hank asked.

"The Holiday Inn, for now," Cain replied. "We're still looking for a place to stay."

"I've got room," LeFevre announced instantly.

Cain grimaced. "That's generous of you but-"

"He really does," Praedlyn added. "And if you move in it gives me an excuse to get the rest of my stuff out."

"At least until you get settled somewhere," Rawlins said in his solemn tone, and that seemed to decide it.

"All right," Cain sighed and nodded to LeFevre. "Thank you."

They figured there would be a "temporary house"-warming party that Saturday since most everyone would be off shift. The meeting adjourned, the CSIs going to conduct their research, the ADA to contact the FBI, and the detectives to do paperwork.

The lieutenant remained behind. He opened a file on his computer, a profile for _CAIN, W. _Rawlins paused, and then in the field marked "confidential notes" typed two words.

_He knows._

_Act 4_

Praedlyn and the Droidens were huddled around Hank's computer terminal as he hacked his way into the FBI's database and flagged the Calvin Schaffer file. "Who wants updates?" he asked.

"I do," Praedlyn replied. "And Brose will."

"All right, baby doll," he said and went back to typing. "You'll be automatically BBC'd onto anything that gets added to the file. Not that the flatfoots will know it."

*

A few desks over Tudor was giving Cain the rundown.

"Our vic lived on the east side," he said, pointing to the map he had spread out over Cain's blotter. "It's a rental, his is the only name on the lease. He's been there since April, and all of this would mean something if we were allowed in the place." Tudor sighed and ran his hand over his head.

"Does this happen a lot?" Cain asked as he looked over the already familiar shape of the city.

Tudor shook his head. "Not too often. They like claiming jurisdiction sometimes, throwing their weight around. I'm just sorry it had to happen on your first day."

"From the sound of thing we may still be on the case," Cain remarked with a nod to the IT team and Praedlyn. "Does _that_ happen a lot?"

"It keeps them busy," Tudor replied. "Honestly we've got an overqualified CSI unit, not that I told you that. Speaking of-" He pointed to an area on the map northwest of downtown. "LeFevre's place is here. It's a old section of town, nice neighborhood. Pretty quiet."

Cain raised his eyebrows. "Quiet is good."

*

In the judge's chambers at the courthouse, Marvin Wayzard was hanging up his robe and singing softly to himself. A knock on the door made him jump and reach for his cane, but he relaxed once the door opened and ADA Gailman poked her head in.

"Sir?" she began. "I'm sorry to interrupt but-"

"Counselor, the correct for of address is 'your honor'," he told her as he waved for her to enter. "Come in, come in, what's this now?"

Gailman, dressed for business in a blouse, trousers, and jacket, stepped inside with a nod and closed the door behind her. "I'm sorry, si- your honor," she began and held out a file. "I have my report on the railroad case."

"The one the FBI took," he sighed and waked to his overstuffed desk chair, gesturing to his inbox as he sat down. "Ms. Gailman, do you have any idea why a federal agency would think our local law enforcement is too incompetent to handle a simple homicide?"

Gailman blinked, then shook her head and dropped the file into the box. "I don't think it i a question of competence, your honor. I believe in this instance the bureau was just taking responsibility for a case similar to one they were already working."

"Hm," Wayzard mused thoughtfully, then rested his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers. "So it's all just a matter of protocol... or not."

Gailman bit her lip. Not this again. "Our people are cooperating as the bureau requested. We are still very much involved with the case and will remain so."

The judge nodded. "Good, good. Keep me posted on the progress. Am I correct in thinking the new detective is involved in this? Cain?"

"Yes," she replied, and relaxed marginally. "He's partnered with Tudor."

Wayzard nodded again and leaned forward. "Keep an eye on him, counsel, I want you to stay by his side at all costs."

She stared at him blankly. "You honor?"

"The sheriff in Hays had a few words about him," the judge continued. "The last thing we need is a loose cannon with a badge. Give me your word, as a representative of this city, that you will watch him."

Gailman blinked and shook her head. Watching after screwy detectives was hardly in her job description, but if it gave her an excuse to spend more time at the police station...

"I promise," she said with a confident smile. "I'll keep him in line."

*

Two teenage girls ran giggling down a hotel hallway. One stopped short in front of a door, the other collided with her, and they both shrieked.

"Shhh!" the second girl said loudly, finger to her lips. They giggled again and started pounding on the door, calling for Megan. The door opened, and the girls were presented with a very irritated Wyatt Cain. They stared at him, he glared at them.

"Megan and Tori got moved to room 415," he said firmly and pointed across the hall.

"Sorry!" the girls chorused, then made a show of quietly sneaking across the hall. Wyatt turned with a grumble, more giggling, pounding, and yelling come through as the door closed.

"Wave your gun at them next time," Jeb suggested from one of the double beds.

His father considered that for a moment, then shook his head and returned to the table which held a Topeka road map and a box of pizza. Wyatt took a slice and sat down in the uncomfortable hotel chair. "Don't want the department to think I'm more of a hick than they already do."

Jeb let his book (_The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time_, required summer reading) fall to his chest. "Maybe put a sign up?"

"They've gotta go to bed son," Wyatt said around a mouthful of pizza. He swallowed and continued. "Then they're gone tomorrow, and we're out of here the day after that."

Jeb scowled. "We're really just moving in with this guy?"

"Until we get on our feet," Wyatt replied. He was still looking over the map, mentally superimposing the one with crime statistics over it. "I'm... sorry I didn't plan this better. I wasn't thinking much beyond the job and getting you registered for school."

For a few moments it was quiet as Jeb tossed the book from hand to hand. "Mom would have found us a nice house."

Wyatt looked up and tried to find words, only to give up with a nod. "I know.

There was more giggling in the hall and then vigorous knocking on the door. Jeb glared and mimed holding a gun, while Wyatt shook his head and got up to deal with the newest group of high-on-sugar teenage girls.

*

The following day saw an odd procession out of the police station's back door: a gurney bearing a body bag being directed to an unmarked transport van by two technicians, two FBI agents (a square-jawed man with a crew cut and an Asian woman, both wearing suits), and two men in white lab coats (LeFevre and Raynz).

"You're sure we can't keep this one?" LeFevre asked, somewhat wistful.

"We're quite sure, Dr. LeFevre," Agent Nora Ving replied.

LeFevre sighed and stuffed his hands in his labcoat's pockets. "But we only get maybe a dozen murders a year, if we skip one we might get rusty."

The other agent, Mike Stonefield, snorted. "A dozen? Does that actually come out to one a month or-"

"Actually it's fascinating," Lefevre said, leaping onto the topic. "They seem to bunch up in November, February, and May. I'm doing a study on it, so outliers like this can be invaluable-"

"Very interesting, and if we need any more information we'll know who to ask," Ving snapped and held out her hand.

Defeated, LeFevre handed over an evidence bag holding the railroad spike. Raynz accepted the transfer papers from Stonefield then stepped back with a bored expression.

"Oh!" Stonefield said, pausing just before the agents got into their rental car. "I heard of this place somewhere out here, it's like an old time drive-in?"

LeFevre brightened. "Bobo's?"

"That's it, Travel Channel said it was good," the agent continued. "Either of y'all know how to get there?"

Raynz's glare managed to increase in force while LeFevre just shook his head. "Speaking both as a guy who likes burgers and a forensics pathologist, don't bother with it. You're better off with Burger King."

Stonefield frowned. "Really?"

"Sorry," LeFevre sighed. "Anyway, best of luck to you guys."

The agents made their exit, and LeFevre turned to Raynz with a smile.

"So. Doing anything for lunch?"

*

The lunch rush was typical for a Friday at Bobo's Drive-In. A carhop with fading ginger hair made her way to a classic black GTO, settled her tray on the driver's side window, and smiled down at the occupant. "There you go, hon, can I get you anything else?"

"Two slices of pie à la mode, please, Judy," Ambrose replied. She nodded and headed back to the restaurant. Ambrose handed Leona a red plastic basket holding a double cheeseburger with fries, then her soda, then took his own basket (same thing, only with onion rings) with a happy sigh.

They were both quiet for a few moments as they savored the first bites.

"I'll be around tonight for those boxes," Leona told him. "Don't forget to clean the bathrooms before they get there tomorrow."

"I won't forget," Ambrose said and took another bite of his burger. "God, it's the crispy outside that just-"

"And you're splitting the utilities with him," she continued. "I know you're short on cash still, so even if they're just there for a couple of months it will help."

He lifted his eyebrows. "You're actually concerned. And here I thought you were just encouraging him so I'd have some decent scenery."

"Last time I turned my back you ran out and bought this thing," she remarked and gestured around the car. "Have you heard back from the patent office?"

He ate an onion ring and nodded. "They want to see a working prototype."

"I would too if some nut on the prairie was pitching me a solar-power hologram projector. So my next question-"

"Lea-"

"Is going to be-"

"You know the ans-"

"How's the prototype coming, Brose?"

"It's not," he snapped. "Between running the lab and the two nights a week at the club I just don't have the time."

She shook her head. "Good thing you're getting a roommate so you can quit the club and go back to work on it, then. Right?"

Ambrose shrugged and glanced out the window. "Oh! Judy's got our pie!"

Leona sighed in frustration and thumped her head back on the headrest.

_Act 5_

A faded blue pickup truck hauling a rental trailer made its way along an old brick road that was lined with Victorian homes. behind the wheel was Wyatt Cain, who was frowning at house numbers. In the passenger seat his son Jeb tried to look unimpressed by the scenery.

"There it is," Wyatt said and angled the truck into a narrow driveway. He cut the engine and they both stared at the house.

"It's purple," Jeb stated.

"It's blue," Wyatt said.

Jeb looked at the plum-shaded front door and other detailing and shook his head. "It's got a lot of purple."

"Come on," his father sighed, unfastening his seatbelt. "It's home for now." They got their suitcases from the back of the truck's cab and started across the lawn.

The house was two stories with a steep front gable sheltering part of the attic, a large bay window on the second floor, and a veranda running from the front porch along the left side and to the back of the house. As they climbed the front steps the purple door opened to reveal Ambrose, dressed in a black and red striped shirt and jeans.

"Hey, you found it," he said with a wave, then turned back to the house and shouted "They're here!" He returned his attention to his guests with a grin. "Hi."

"Hello," Wyatt replied, blinking. "This is my son Jeb. Jeb, this is Dr. LeFevre."

"Nice to meet you," Ambrose said as they shook hands. "And, please, Ambrose is fine. Come on in, Lionel's getting the grill set up out back, you can at least get your suitcases to your rooms, then after lunch we can start on the boxes."

"Thanks," Wyatt said with a nod, then nudged Jeb who also muttered his thanks before stepping inside.

The foyer was small and lead immediately into the living room with stairs to the second floor off on the right. Beyond the living room was the kitchen, where they could hear Leona and Thomas Tudor arguing about mayonnaise.

"Built in 1887, it's one of the older homes in Potwin," Ambrose said over the noise. "It's been in my family since 190-"

"They don't care, Brose," Leona called and poked her head out of the kitchen. "Show them their rooms and help me keep this idiot from ruining the macaroni salad."

"I'm telling you," Thomas snapped. "If you don't get that Miracle Whip away from my bowl so help me-"

Ambrose looked pained. "We're not going near that. Upstairs."

As they ascended the steps Wyatt took in the antique furniture, the faded photographs, the cobwebs in the corners and the dust in the widow frames. "Nice place," he said diplomatically. "Lived in."

"Oh, this old dump?" Ambrose remarked with a smile over his shoulder. He got to the top of the stairs and gestured to the right. "Second door on the left, Wyatt. Jeb, you've got the attic - it's finished - so second door on the right. The steps are narrow but you should be fine."

"What's in the other rooms?" Jeb asked as he followed his father down the narrow hall.

"Bathroom," Ambrose replied and opened the first door on the right, then turned and opened the first one on the left. "My office. Master suit's down the other end of the hall," he added and pointed back over his shoulder. "I'll be down making sure my kitchen doesn't get destroyed, you can catch up with me there."

More thanks were offered, and the Cains got acquainted with their new accomidations. Wyatt's room was on the small side but that was plenty of room for him. Jeb found himself briefly distracted by the star chart poster pinned impossibly high on the steeply-pitched ceiling.

His father met him at the bottom of the attic steps. "All right?"

Jeb shrugged. "It's fine, I guess."

"We won't be here long," Wyatt reminded him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Let's go see if we can help with lunch."

They went back to the ground floor to discover Lionel calmly sliding hunks of chicken and vegetables onto skewers at the dining room table. Beside him was a cutting board with neatly formed hamburger patties and slices of cheddar cheese. Through the back window they could see Leona and Thomas working on covering a long picnic table with a blue and white checked cloth.

"Welcome home," Lionel said with a faint smile.

"Home for now," Wyatt allowed ruefully and nodded to the preparations. "Need any help?"

Lionel shook his head, then hummed and reconsidered. "How are you with burgers?"

"I can hold my own," Wyatt remarked and picked up the cutting board. He glanced at his son. "Want to give me a hand?"

Jeb had been studying the various magnets and other items arrayed on the refrigerator absently. He shrugged. "I'll be out in a bit."

Wyatt sighed and nodded, then followed Lionel out. Jeb took the opportunity to do a bit more snooping and so turned his attention to the cork message board on the kitchen wall.

There was a to-do list "for Saturday," mostly crossed off. All of the entries were written in a neat but hasty scrawl except for the last item written in large, feminine script. _"BEHAVE!"_ There was also a list of take-out places with phone numbers, a police memo about updated municipal codes dated from May 16, and a child's crayon doodle of what might have been Ambrose and Leona, each smiling and holding a piece of paper labeled "_evidents_."

_Thank u Dr. Laferf and Miss Lea_, was written across the top. It was signed _Luv, Taniqua_.

Jeb heard feet on steps from somewhere below him, and then a door in the living room opened. Ambrose stepped through, one arm curled around a large box while he closed the basement door behind him. He froze for a moment when he saw Jeb, then broke into a grin.

"I'm going to get used to that," he promised as he entered the kitchen. He placed the box on the counter, then opened it and lifted out a large punch bowl made of green glass. He carried the bowl to the sink and set about washing it.

Jeb kept himself busy by opening a cabinet door, which happened to contain he pantry.

"While you're in there could you grab me the lemonade mix?" Ambrose asked. "Bottom shelf on the left, I think."

The plastic container was located and Jeb brought it over to the counter and let it down. "Here."

"Thanks, Jeb," Ambrose replied, then blinked. "Huh. You don't here that name very often."

"No you don't, Ambrose," Jeb said pointedly. He went to the other side of the counter where two stools were arranged, pulled one out, and settled upon it.

"I guess Wyatt's not that common either," Ambrose mused, then beamed. "Hey, we've all got something in common already." He finished rinsing the bowl and set it aside, then grabbed a towel to dry his hands.

Jeb sighed, then spotted a phone book which had been left out and pulled it closer so he could leaf through it while Ambrose made lemonade.

"I know you've got this whole brooding teenager thing going on," Ambrose began out of nowhere. "And you've got more reason than most. New town, new school, your dad's got you moved in with somebody you don't know. And..." He stopped, wisely, instead of bringing up the boy's mother. "Let's just say i get it, okay? So if you ever want to talk-"

"What?"

Ambrose shrugged and went to the freezer for ice. "Nothing, just... here to help if you want it."

Jeb flipped the book closed and slid off the stool. "We're not going to be here long," he said and trudged out the back door.

With a frown Ambrose replayed the conversation, mouthing his words for a moment, then sighed and rolled his eyes. "Oh no, Ambrose," he snapped to the empty kitchen. "That wasn't at all creepy."

*

_From here on you can count on all things going_

_The way they must have from the start_

_All you feel is the current flowing through you_

_And seizing your infected heart_

It was not long before the picnic table was set, burgers and kebobs, corn on the cob with butter, macaroni salad (without Miracle Whip), cornbread and other fixings. Ambrose, Leona, and Thomas took one side of the table with Lionel, Jeb, and Wyatt opposite them.

Once everyone had a full plate Lionel cleared his throat and lifted his blue Solo cup of lemonade. Soon they all had their cups raised and were looking at him expectantly.

_I found God in a catalytic converter_

_In Topeka on a Monday night..._

"To new friends," he began, and Ambrose and Leona smiled slightly. "New partners," and here Thomas nodded. "And new beginnings."

Wyatt and Jeb looked at each other, resigned and resolved, then glanced around the table at the people who, for better or for worse, were going to shape their lives.

"New beginnings," Wyatt echoed, and the phrase was repeated as the cups came together over the center of the table.

_...every saint has a past, every sinner has a future..._

_fade to black_

_end credits_


End file.
